What Do You See?
by RMBlythe
Summary: It was The End. Wasn't it? Watson soon learns that nothing is as it seems when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, and their greatest adventure is only beginning. Solving crimes is easy. Raising a little girl is quite the challenge. Not slash!
1. Chapter 1

_**This picks up where A Game of Shadows leaves off. I know it's been done before, but now it's my turn. I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or any of his grand adventures, though I do wish I could accompany him. Dang, that would be fun! Anyways... Please read and review! I hope you like it, and I'll try my best to do justice to the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.**_

Chapter 1

_"Sometimes, being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over." ~Gloria Naylor_

"I'm going to go lie down for a bit, Darling," Mary Watson said to her husband with a quick kiss on the cheek. A day of travel coming back from their late honeymoon in Brighton had left her rather tired. She was quite relieved to be home.

"Alright, Dearest," John Watson said, kissing his wife on the cheek. As she made her way up the stairs, John went to his office. On his desk still lay the oxygen device that had once so fascinated his late friend, Sherlock Holmes. It still puzzled him how such a contraption had ended up at his doorstep. At first, he had thought that Holmes had delivered it. But that was absurd. Holmes was dead. Watson had seen him go over the balcony himself, had witnessed the long drop, and the ice cold water that waited at the bottom. There was no way his friend could have survived such a fall. It was entirely impossible. And though Holmes had often pulled himself and countless others through impossible situations before, this time the feat was too great even for the famous Sherlock Holmes. Watson knew that. It had taken him some time to accept it, but he finally had resigned himself to the fact. Also, he knew that if Holmes somehow would have survived, he surely would have returned to explain his great escape in exaggerated detail to Watson, whether he had wanted to hear it or not. Watson could not help but smile a bit, thinking about his friend's wild antics.

"Oh God, Holmes," he groaned, sinking down in his desk chair. "After all that we've been through... every time I thought for sure it was over... and this is how it ended? Though I must admit, you had to prove me wrong, didn't you? You weren't a selfish bastard after all. You jumped, taking Moriarty with you so the world would finally be free of him," he sighed, wiping the blasted tears from his eyes. "Now you're just a bastard," he chuckled humorlessly.

Watson groaned again, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. And then, something caught his eye. He looked at the manuscript he had been writing before he and Mary had left for their honeymoon. "Curious," he muttered, taking the last page out to better inspect it, "I could have sworn the last thing I wrote was 'The End'..."

Now, there was a question mark placed at the end. Watson frowned. Why would he have phrased it as a question? The adventures of Holmes and Watson were finished... weren't they?

His gaze travelled down the page where another line was written that he was sure he did not write: "Come at your earliest convenience. Or, if it is inconvenient, come anyway."

Watson's heart started to race. Even for Holmes this was impossible. Right? Perhaps it was worth giving Mrs. Hudson a call. Then again, he thought as he rose from his chair and headed out, perhaps he was descending into a madness similar to that he had claimed Holmes suffered from. His friend was dead, but if there was a possibility that he wasn't... well, it was certainly worth looking into.

His hand on the doorknob, he heard the crinkle of paper beneath his shoe. Frowning slightly, Watson reached down and picked up an envelope.

_"My dearest Dr. Watson,_

_First, I must ask that you burn this letter as soon as you are finished reading it. Alright? Good. Now then, I know you are on your way to Nanny's. Did you leave a note for your new wife who is resting up the stair? No, you did not. I must say, Watson, I am somewhat disappointed. With all that talk of your undying love for Mary, and you neglect to tell her you are stepping out? What would she think if she awoke to an empty house? No. That will not do at all. Go and write a note. _

_On second thought, don't do that. Do not go to Mrs. Hudson's, Watson. She knows nothing of this. No one does, and you must promise to tell no one of this. I am trusting you with my life, Watson. Just as you must trust me. All will be revealed in time, that is my promise to you, my friend. But for now, do not attempt to discover my whereabouts. For now, it must be enough for you to know that I am not dead as everyone supposed, but neither is it yet the proper time for me to be alive. So, burn this letter. Live your life of imprisonment, which you call matrimony. And know, that one day, we will meet again._

_Ever yours,_

_S. Holmes"_

Watson's hands trembled as he continued to stare at the letter after he had finished reading. Holmes was alive! "You bloody bastard," he muttered, producing a lighter from his pocket and letting the orange flame burn the letter. When it was gone, Watson leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling quite dizzy. He was alive! Homes had survived! How was this even possible? For months he had forced himself to come to grips with his death, only to find that he was alive! Watson never knew he could feel so many emotions at once. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He was filled with overwhelming joy, blinding anger, crippling relief, and unmeasurable amounts of frustration and confusion. How could Holmes do this to him? How could he lead him to believe that he was dead, only to write to him now to tell him that he was in fact alive but he was not to try and find him or contact him in any way? It was completely psychotic!

It was completely Sherlock Holmes.

For nearly a year, Watson tried to put Holmes out of his mind. But he had to admit that he payed much too much attention to their postman, the lamp lighter, the waiter, even the beggar he saw on the street. He thought he saw Holmes in one of his infamous disguises everywhere. It was slowly driving him mad that he could not go after his friend. What if he was in trouble? What if he needed help? Both were likely. But he forced himself to live his life as Holmes suggested, and trust his friend that all would be set to rights eventually.

Indeed, Watson did live his life. Two months after the strange letter from Holmes, Mary revealed to her husband that she was pregnant. Come December, they would be parents.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello you lovely Sherlock fans! I'm so excited because my friend has made a Sherlock Holmes trailer and posted it on youtube! She's super talented so you should totally go watch it! The link is on my profile. Read & Review!**

Chapter 2

_"A friend is a hand that is always holding yours, no matter how close or far apart you may be. A friend is someone who is always there and will always, always care. A friend is a feeling of forever in the heart."~_

One night near the end of October, Watson could not sleep. His wife slumbered peacefully beside him for the first time in weeks, her delicate hand resting comfortably over their unborn child. Watson sat in bed for a moment, just watching her sleep, overcome with love for the mother of his child. She shifted a bit, and afraid of waking her, Watson eased himself out of bed and quietly left the room. Wrapping his dressing robe around him against the slight chill in the house, he padded down the stairs and headed to his office. Lighting a match, he started a fire in the fire place, enjoying it's radiating heat while pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He had just taken a sip when he felt a rather sharp object poke him in the back of the neck. Reaching up slowly, he pulled a thin wooden dart like projectile from his skin. "No need to worry, dear Watson," an all too familiar voice said. "I have it on high authority that it is not poisoned."

His breath caught in his throat and he turned, fully expecting the impossible. Sure enough, there sat the insufferable Sherlock Holmes behind Watson's desk. It took a moment before Watson found his voice. They simply stared at each other, many possible scenarios running through Watson's head. "No hello for your long lost friend, Watson?" Holmes said, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

And that's when Dr. John Watson lost it.

"You bastard," he hissed, trying to keep his voice soft so as not to wake Mary, but wanting nothing more than to scream at the man sitting so calmly before him. "You're gone for nearly a year, and I'm supposed to say hello as though nothing has happened? Where the hell have you been? You led us to believe you were dead, Holmes! Dead! Do you have any, any idea how that felt to watch you practically jump off that balcony, well knowing there was no way you would survive the fall? What the bloody hell were you thinking, Holmes?"

Holmes was silent for a moment. He finally looked up at his friend, for while Watson had been ranting, Holmes had been staring guiltily down at his hands, and said, "To be fair, old chap, I did send you a letter."

Watson's jaw dropped. "A letter. The damnable half page letter you sent to tell me not to come looking for you and not to tell anyone about? The one that told me you were in fact alive, but I had to go on pretending that you weren't? That letter?"

"Yes, I do believe that was the one," the detective nodded.

"Damn you, Holmes," Watson groaned softly, taking a deep breath as he felt tears burn his eyes. "Why?" he very nearly shouted, his anger flaring up again. Even though he suspected he knew, he wanted to hear it from Holmes' own lips. "Tell me why!"

"To protect you!" Holmes cried, his mask of calm indifference close to shattering as he stood up and came around to face his friend. "To protect you, and Mary, and Simza, and everyone from that man! He killed Irene. He tried to kill you and Mary. I was tired of putting all of you in danger. That's why I could not come back until now, Watson! That is why I jumped!"

Watson realized his hands were trembling. He placed the glass of whiskey he still held on the mantle so he would not drop it, or shatter it in his hand. It was all too much. The grief, the relief... he had not cried when he ran to rail of the balcony, only to realize he was too late to help Holmes. He had not shed a tear as he supervised the search party for his friend's body at the base of the waterfall, ensuring they scoured every last inch, only to come up empty handed. No sob passed his lips as he sat alone towards the back of City Hall during the memorial service of the great Sherlock Holmes. He did not even cry from the overwhelming joy he felt upon receiving that damn letter so many months ago. But now he could not stop the salty tears from running down his cheeks and the sob from escaping his throat. Holmes crossed the room to stand before his broken friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what else to really do. It was only when his own lower lip began to tremble, that he wrapped his arms around Watson's shaking shoulders in a tight brotherly embrace. At first, the doctor tensed. But Holmes didn't let go. And after a moment, Watson hugged him back, clutching Holmes to him as though he was afraid that if he let go, the man before him would disappear. "Oh how I've missed you, Holmes," he sighed, inhaling the familiar scent of gunpowder, dirt, and a bit of pine mixed with peppermint that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes.

"Of course you have, dear Watson," Holmes smirked, sniffing back his own tears of joy caused by the long overdue reunion. They held onto each other for a few moments more, each silently thanking God the other was safe.

"Well, I happen to have a spare room," Watson said, clearing his throat and brushing away the last of his tears as they broke apart. "How about it, Holmes? Stay here tonight and then you will be able to see Mary in the morning."

"No, certainly not," Holmes said with a shake of his head. "I could not possibly impose..."

"Holmes," Watson smiled, looking his friend in the eye, "you could never impose. You are my best friend, despite everything, and you will always be welcome in my home."

Leading Holmes up to his room for the night, Watson smiled gently, "Goodnight, Holmes. It's good to have you back."

"Goodnight," Holmes said. Watson smirked and nodded. Same old Holmes. But just as he began the walk to his own room, he heard Holmes call for him. Turning, he saw his friend standing in the doorway. Holmes smiled broadly, "I've missed you as well, Watson."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Yay updates! This chapter is where things start to get interesting! Please let me know what you think of the story so far, as an aspiring writer, constructive criticism is always welcome!**_

Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes sat in one of the large armchairs of Watson's office one rather chilly morning in November, pretending to be interested in the newspaper spread out before him as he smoked his pipe. Normally, he would have devoured the information he gathered from the paper, piecing together clues and solving crimes before anyone else realized they'd been committed. But not this morning. This morning he was focused on the room up the stair where Dr. John Watson was helping Mary bring their child into the world a month earlier than previously expected. Holmes tapped his foot impatiently and blew a stream of smoke past his lips. How long was this supposed to take, anyway? He had been informed of the impending miracle at precisely 4:17 this morning. It was now exactly 9:42. Mary's occasional cries and screams of pain still pierced the air, always followed by the low comforting tone of Watson's voice as he soothed his wife. Holmes could only imagine the anxiety his friend was experiencing. He did not envy him.

Suddenly, Mary was silent and the sound of a baby's cry floated through the floorboards. Holmes could not help but smile. Just a little. Whether from the joy he felt upon the child's highly anticipated arrival, or from the hilarity of Watson becoming a father, he was not entirely sure. Nevertheless, he left the lonely office to meet Watson at the stairway, assuming his friend would come down soon to make his proud announcement. Sure enough, Watson emerged from the bedroom and appeared at the top of the stairs. But this was not the Watson Holmes was expecting to see. There was no ridiculous smile spread across his face. No joy alighting his eyes. No spring in his step. There was no laughter on his lips. Instead, his face was frighteningly pale. Paler than Holmes had ever seen it. His eyes were dull and glazed over. His hair stood up in all different directions as if he had been pulling on it all morning. And as he took slow, deliberate steps towards his friend, he seemed alarmingly weak. "Good God, man," Holmes said with concern lining his voice, "what is it?"

Watson gripped the banister so hard his knuckles turned white. But the room was spinning, he had to hold onto something to keep himself upright. His knees shook and threatened to give out beneath him with ever step he took. He looked down at Holmes, his vision blurred slightly by unshed tears. He heard him ask what was wrong, but he sounded so very far away. One more step... and the world went blessedly dark.

Holmes sprang into action when his friend fell unconscious, taking him up in his arms with a strength he was truthfully a bit surprised to find he possessed, especially considering the old wound in his shoulder that still caused him pain. He carried him back up the stairs and placed him in the bed he had been staying in for the past few nights. Mrs. Hudson, who had been fetched by Sherlock himself upon Watson's request early this morning to assist with the birth, stood in the doorway when he turned back around. "Oh, the poor dear," she sighed, looking at Watson's still form.

At that moment, the baby cried again from the room down the hall. And suddenly, it all became clear to Holmes. Mary's sudden silence. Watson's collapse. The baby's persistent cry. The Mrs. Dr. Watson had died in childbirth.

Though he had never particularly cared for children, finding very little use for them, Holmes discovered he was quiet curious about the wailing thing in the next room. Stepping past Mrs. Hudson, he followed the sound to the bedroom formerly occupied by such a happy couple. To an ordinary passer-by, Holmes' reaction to seeing Mary's body lying in the bed from which she had given her life to her child might seem cold and uncaring. A simple twitch of the jaw. But within his own heart, Holmes was grieving. Although their relationship had always been, shall we say, rocky at best, Holmes knew how happy she had made Watson. And he knew how much the good Doctor had loved his wife. To lose her would surely take it's toll on him. After all, having the woman you loved cruelly taken from you was not an unfamiliar pain to Sherlock Holmes.

He turned his attention to the seemingly more pressing matter. The daughter of John and Mary Watson lay in a small basinet, clothed only in a cloth diaper and wrapped loosely in a white blanket. She kicked her legs and held two tiny fists up by her face as she continued to cry. Holmes cocked his head to one side as he examined the tiny thing. While knowledgeable about a great many things, caring for a child was not one of them. And since Watson was currently incapable of doing so at the moment, Holmes took it upon himself to comfort the thing. "Well," he said to the baby girl, "it's rather cold in here, don't you think?" At the mere sound of his voice the screams faded to mere whimpers. Pleased with this, Holmes continued. "Yes, as do I. Shall we go somewhere where it is a bit more comfortable?" Unsure of just quite how to best move her though, he simply decided to pick up the basinet and carry it downstairs to Watson's office where he started a fire. Sitting in the chair he had been in previously this morning, he pulled the basinet closer and rested his arms on the edge, peering down at the baby. "There we are," he said, reaching in to ever so carefully tuck the blanket around her little body, "isn't that better?" She started to cry again. Holmes groaned. "Whatever could possibly be the matter now? You know, you haven't nearly been alive long enough to have so much to cry over, my dear."

But, cry she did. And it was then that Holmes got an idea. "Stay right there," he said, before dashing up the stairs and retrieving his violin. Coming back down to the office, he stood over the basinet and began to play a traditional lullaby. The notes were long and flowing, and they floated through the melancholy house. Mrs. Hudson heard him and left Dr. Watson's side for just a moment to investigate. She watched from the stairway as Holmes swayed with the swells and dips of the music he played for the baby who now slept soundly. She shook her head and a small smile touched her lips. Just when she thought she had that man all figured out...

When Holmes realized she had finally stopped crying and had given herself up to sleep, he placed the violin down on a table and leaned over the basinet again. When she was not screaming, she was actually quite an attractive child. Light blonde curls covered her head. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips were the perfect shade of red. She yawned suddenly and squirmed a bit before settling back down into dreamland. Holmes found himself smiling in spite of himself. Perhaps there was something useful about a baby after all.

This particular one, anyway.

The young widower, Dr. John Watson, stepped forth from the small crowd to place the first shovel of dirt on his late wife's grave, his face seemingly void of any emotion at all. But one only need look a bit closer to see in his tortured and tear filled eyes a heart heavily burdened with sorrow. His jaw was clenched tight against the cry of anguish that lingered in his throat and tore at his chest as he determinedly poured the soil on top of Mary Watson's coffin, gripping the shovel tightly to prevent himself from shaking.

As they walked away from the grave site after the service, the small baby girl in Mrs. Hudson's arms began to wail pitifully. Sherlock Holmes looked from the poor thing being comforted by Mrs. Hudson and back to Watson. His friend's gaze did not even waver at the sound of his daughter's cry, and kept his stormy eyes focused on the wagon that would take them to their new- old residence, 221 Baker Street. It had been decided that Watson and the young Miss Watson would move back into the flat in Mrs. Hudson's home with Holmes. Between preparing for the move and Mary's funeral, Dr. Watson had yet to hold his daughter, barely even having the time to acknowledge her existence. Therefore, Holmes, with much help from Mrs. Hudson, had been the primary care giver to the little girl. Holmes wondered though, rather, he hoped Watson would embrace his role as the child's father now that things were beginning to settle down again. Holmes was not sure how long he would last as the sensible one.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hello everyone! I'm back! No, of course I haven't forgotten about this story! Believe me, Sherlock is insistent that I continue ;) Anyways, I think Wednesday will be my update days. So, yeah that's about it for now. This chapter is kinda longer than the others, and there's some good Holmes and baby cuteness, but also some major Watson angst! Please let me know what you think of the story! And thank you to BlooperLover for leaving such a nice and encouraging review :)**_

Chapter 4

_"A friend can tell you things you don't want to tell yourself." ~Frances Ward Weller_

Unfortunately, Holmes soon realized all would not simply be returning to normal any time soon. Watson all but abandoned his practice. Most days he simply sat in his quarters, staring listlessly out the window. He hardly ever touched the food Mrs. Hudson brought up to him, and he often drank whiskey over the carefully prepared tea. More times than he would like to count, Holmes' own work was interrupted by the young Miss Watson's cries and he would enter his friend's room only to find him still in that blasted chair, seemingly unaffected by the baby's tears. The third time Holmes came in to discover that Watson had gone out gambling again, leaving his daughter unattended, was the night he decided to move the cradle into his own room. If Watson wanted to waste his life, so be it. But this little girl was not going to suffer because of it. The very same morning, when Watson finally came stumbling up the stairs and into their flat, Holmes was waiting for him. "Have you any idea what time it is, Watson?"

Watson frowned. "You have a watch," he slurred. "Look for yourself."

"Watson it is ten o'clock in the morning! Look at yourself! You cannot keep doing this!" Holmes said, more sternly than he had ever spoken before in his entire life.

"And who says so? You?" Watson barked a laugh. "What would you know, Holmes? You have never loved a woman the way I loved Mary!" he shouted. "You have not had your heart ripped from your chest, the sole reason of your existence cruelly taken from you long before you should have to let go!"

"Yes, I have," Holmes said rather loudly in a tone that brooked no argument. "I loved Irene, Watson. Do you hear me? I loved her! And I lost her. She was taken from me before she could ever truly be mine. But I know she would not want me to waste my life, just as Mary would be broken hearted if she were to see you now!"

Watson tried to take a swing at Holmes, but the detective ducked out of the way just in time. Watson continued to throw punches, seldom actually making contact, as Holmes simply attempted to defend himself. Finally though, enough was enough. Situational assessment: Watson, obviously intoxicated, reflexes slow, depth perception off, sleep deprived. In short, running off fumes of alcohol and his overspent emotions. Personal danger: Little to none. General danger: Great, if Watson continues in such a self destructive fashion. Only possible solution: Make Watson see reason by whatever means necessary. First, block right hook. Next, bruise ribs. Left cross taking advantage of Watson's old war injury on upper right leg. In unspeakable pain, adrenaline fades, anger doubled. Watson on his knees. Move in to force reason. Summary: Bruised ribs, aching leg, disoriented and quite possibly filled with rage, but restrained. Physical healing time, one hour. Emotional healing time, unknown. Enacting his plan flawlessly, Holmes had Watson pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds. "Listen to me, Watson," he ordered, both breathing heavily from their little fight, "you have even more of a reason to live than I did. Your daughter! Remember her?"

Watson's eyes darkened. "Get off of me."

Holmes stared at him, barely recognizing the man before him. His heart sank as he obliged, a horrible thought invading his mind. The Dr. John Watson he once held in such high regard was gone. And Holmes was not sure when, if ever, he would reappear.

Days passed slowly with Holmes helplessly watching as Watson slipped further and further away. He could not help but wonder if this was how his dear friend felt when he himself would slip into one of his depressed states where he shut out the world and lived only within his own mind as he turned over every detail of a case. However, Holmes would always emerge from such states once he had made a discovery. He was beginning to doubt that Watson would.

One evening, Holmes was working on an experiment to determine just how high a frog could jump when injected with a stimulant of his own design when the cry of young Miss Watson filled the air. After a moment or two, Holmes groaned and made his way to his own quarter's, passing Watson's room on the way. "Don't trouble yourself, I'll see to her," he called to his rather comatose friend. With a sigh, Holmes approached the cradle he had placed near the window. Reaching in, now finally having learned out of necessity the proper way to hold and transport a child, he lifted the still wailing baby into his arms and cradled her against his chest. "You know, you are very quite persistent, Miss Watson. A quality which I believe will serve you well later in life, though as of just now, my dear, it is completely unnecessary," he said, as she began to quiet and snuggle deeper into his perpetually warm body, his familiar scent of gunpowder, dirt, a bit of pine, chemicals, and a touch of peppermint comforting her as only her dear Uncle Holmes could. "Alright. I see your point. I never would have left that experiment of mine had you quieted on your own. You have won this argument, Miss Watson, but have no fear, I shall prevail when next we meet."

Holmes began to walk the floor while gently bouncing her, something he found she liked immensely, and tilted his head as he examined her. A new thought occurred to him rather suddenly. "I don't know why I did not think of it before, but I suppose I cannot call you Miss Watson indefinitely, now can I, my dear?" he asked her. "Well, I could, but when asked your name you must have a suitable answer. Especially once you begin to attend school, for despite my arguments which suggest the opposite, I do indeed see education as a valuable asset in life. And since your father seems incapable of doing so, I see the task of christening you falls to me. What do you think of Christine, perhaps?"

The little baby's face scrunched up as if in disgust. "Yes, I agree," Holmes nodded. That won't do at all. Marie then? Or Ann?" She yawned. "Of course. Much too plain and oh so very ordinary for a woman of your stature," the detective chuckled. Then after a moment's thought suggested, "Suppose we name you Mary, after your mother? Mary Irene Watson. I do believe that has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Young Mary sighed contentedly. "It's settled then. It's an honor to meet you, Mary. You know, your mother and I used to give each other a terrible time. But, in her own way, she was a remarkable woman, just as I have a feeling you will be one day. She was a good friend, and she could not wait to be a mother. You must know that, my dear. She loved you very much. And, despite how often I tried to convince him otherwise, I know she made your father very happy. You mustn't fret about him, my dear. He'll come around sooner or later," Holmes said, unsure whether he was reassuring Mary or himself. "He is still grieving, you know. Just give him time. Your middle name, you ask? Irene Adler was another friend of mine, well... someday I'll tell you the whole story. Suffice to say, she was a most fascinating woman. Strong. Brave and cunning. One of a kind, that woman. I'm afraid I've given you much to live up to, Mary Irene. But something tells me you will by far exceed anyone's expectations."

He smiled at her and shifted so her head now rest against his good shoulder. "Now then, what say we find Nanny and have her fetch you a bottle and brew some tea for your dear old Uncle Holmes, hmm? I promise to watch her closely. You never can be too careful with that woman, you know."

Holmes thought he didn't hear her. He thought he didn't care. And for once in his life, he could not have been more wrong.

Watson heard his daughter's cries. Every scream that passed from her small lips pierced his ears and made him cringe. He cared. Oh how he cared! But caring... caring hurt too much. It only brought grief in the end. He had cared for his wife more than anything in the entire world, and still he had lost her. Closing his eyes, Watson bowed his head and gripped the arms of the chair tightly as he let the memories over take him.

Mary had awoken in the wee hours of the morning, and Watson knew why right away. The baby was coming. Although it was a month early, the soon to be father was not worried. He was a doctor after all. He had helped numerous women give birth before. Everything would be fine. But after just a few hours, the hard labor began and her contractions grew closer together. Watson had never seen Mary in such pain and it frightened him. He knew then he would not be able to do this alone. Well, if it were anyone other than his own wife, he could. But his nerves were so frazzled... so he had Holmes fetch Mrs. Hudson. Grueling hour upon grueling hour passed after his old land lady, and dear friend, arrived. Mary grew pale as she gasped for a breath between the waves of pain that crashed over her. His own heart galloping wildly, Watson tried his best to guide her through. Beads of sweat glistened on her skin and matted her golden curls down onto her forehead, but she was still beautiful. "John!" she cried, tears now rolling down her cheeks. "Help me, John! Help me!"

"Just breathe, Darling. You're doing marvelously. Just breathe," he would say in a low, soothing voice. Mary would take a deep breath, attempting to calm herself as Mrs. Hudson wiped her brow with a cool cloth before yet another contraction hit her with alarming force. Finally, Watson announced to his wife that she was ready to bring their child into the world. As long as Mary had to suffer before hand, actually giving birth to the baby took surprisingly little time at all. Watson soon held a very small wailing girl in his arms. With a grin that stretched from ear to ear, he looked at Mary and laughed, "It's a girl!"

"Oh," Mary sighed, tears of joy now running down her cheeks, "John, she's beautiful! May I hold her? Please?"

"Of course, Darling," he said, and still smiling he gently cleaned off the baby and handed his daughter to his wife.

"Hello Sweetheart," Mary whispered, placing gentle kisses on her baby's face. "Mama loves you very much. Always remember that."

Watson watched the tender exchange with a heart filled to overflowing with pride and love. He kissed Mary's lips and then the baby's forehead. "Papa loves you too, Sweetheart. And he loves Mama very much."

"I love you too, John," Mary smiled wearily. "Oh I'm so tired. Will you take her, John?"

"Gladly," Watson smiled, taking his daughter up into his arms. Wrapping her gently in a white blanket Mary had knit a few months ago, he lay her down in her basinet. Then, he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp and whisper his name. He never knew that his own name could strike such fear into his heart. He turned to see his former land lady with tears in her eyes, her hand pressed to her mouth as she looked down at his wife. What in heaven's name was wrong with that woman? Mary was simply sleeping, not unusual for a woman who has just given birth to her first child. Upon closer examination though, Watson saw how unnaturally still Mary looked. Her chest did not expand with the intake of air. And for the first time, Watson realized just how much blood there was. It made his stomach churn. With feet that seemed to move on their own accord, Watson crossed the room to the bed where his wife lay. With a hand that paid him no mind, he reached out and placed two fingers against Mary's throat. Nothing. "No," he choked, reaching for her cold hand and clutching it tightly. He fell to his knees beside her and began to cry desperately, "No, no, no! Please no! Mary! Oh God, Mary!"

A choked sob escaped Watson's lips as the memory faded. A few tears slipped down his cheeks. Oh how he wished he could have died in her place! She would have been a far better mother than he was proving to be a father. But he just didn't know how. How was he supposed to function without her? How was he supposed to care for a child on his own? He couldn't do it, and he didn't want to. A life without Mary was no life at all.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Hello dear readers and Sherlock fanatics! It is Wednesday, and as promised, here is your update! Honestly, updating this is part of what gets me through the week! What do y'all think of the story so far? I hope you're enjoying it, because I LOVE writing about Holmes & Watson! Oh, and if you tried to check out my friend's youtube vid, she has temporarily taken it down to edit it. I'll let you know when she puts it back up. Please review! They make me happier than Sherlock with a new case to solve :) And a huuuge thank you to BlooperLover for reviewing and to everyone who has favorited/followed this story so far!**_

Chapter 5

_A true friend never gets in your way, unless you happen to be going down._

A few weeks later, an urgent note was sent to 221 Baker Street addressed to Holmes from Inspector Lestrade. It seemed that Watson had been arrested at the bar he'd been frequenting. Something was said about public intoxication, gambling, and a brawl, but Holmes didn't really pay much attention. Watson had landed himself in prison, for once it was not Holmes' fault, and that was really all he needed to know. He immediately dawned his own coat and then began to bundle up Mary, despite Mrs. Hudson's protests, and took her with him downtown to the jail house. He naturally had a plan, and the child in his arms was of vital importance. Holmes met Lestrade at the gate. "Hold this," he said simply, handing little Mary to the thoroughly baffled head of the Yard. Holmes then sauntered up to the bars, a hard expression on his face. That is, until he actually caught sight of Dr. Watson, or rather, what was left of his friend. Watson's hair and beard were both in desperate need of a trim. His clothes, usually kept in the most pristine condition, were dirty, torn, and rumpled. Holmes' heart ached at the sight of him. "Watson," he called out. The other prisoners ignored him, but the doctor's head shot up, his eyes bloodshot and encircled by dark shadows, his cheeks hallow and pale. Holmes cringed as he watched his friend limp over to the gate.

"Holmes," Watson slurred slightly with a slow smile. "Thank God! Let's go home."

Holmes took a deep breath, fairly certain his plan would work. Honestly, he was out of ideas, which was quite a new situation to find himself in. But he had tried everything else to bring the old Watson back to life, and this was the last and only option. He only hoped that one day Watson would be able to forgive him for this. "There's someone else here who would like to see you before we go anywhere," he said, motioning for Lestrade to bring Mary forward. Taking the girl in his arms, who awakened during the transition between the two men, he turned back to where a confused Watson stood waiting. If possible, he grew even paler when he saw his daughter. "This is your father, my dear," Holmes said, willing himself to continue on in Watson's best interest. "When she found out where I was headed today, she insisted upon accompanying me. You see, Watson, she was wondering who you were. Lord knows, I tried my best to explain, but she simply could not make the connection between the honorable man I was describing and the drunk bastard who has taken his place. So now she will be able to recognize the man who has done nothing but cast her aside since the hour of her birth as if she were nothing more than a nuisance to be ignored. Yes, my dearest girl, this pitiful excuse for a man is your father."

As his friend's cruel but honest words fell upon his ears, and his daughter's wide eyes seemed to look straight into his broken soul, Watson felt his heart shatter into a million pieces even though he had been sure that it was already beyond repair. He stared down at the ground and watched as his tears stained the cobblestones of the prison yard beneath his feet. For the first time since Mary's death, he realized with a pang of regret just how wildly out of control he'd allowed his life to get. His own daughter, his precious baby girl, was over a month old and the only time he'd ever even touched her was when he cleaned her up and wrapped her in a blanket just before Mary had breathed her last. Pushing past all the hurt, buried deep beneath his crushing grief, was a memory filled with more joy than he had ever imagined he could feel. The memory of holding his daughter, of seeing her face for the very first time. The fact that she was seeing him in such a state now...

Watson crumpled to his knees before Holmes, choked and harsh uncontrollable sobs erupting from his chest.

Holmes sighed with relief. "Let him out, Lestrade," he ordered as he shifted Mary a bit to ease the ache in his shoulder. "I do believe our dear Dr. Watson is back at long last."

Arriving back at 221 Baker Street, Watson sank down into a chair in his office, rubbing his temples in hopes of riding himself of the horrible headache he'd developed. "Drink this," Holmes demanded, barging into the room and handing his friend a glass a third full with some sort of clear liquid. "Best plug your nose."

Watson did as instructed without question, letting Holmes know just how out of it the doctor truly was, swallowing the concoction in one go. He coughed a bit and slammed the glass down on his desk. "Holmes!" he cried, still coughing a bit. "Tell me that was not what I think it was!"

"Alright," Holmes sniffed, sitting in a chair opposite him. "I won't tell you."

"Holmes!"

Pulling out his pipe and filling it with his favorite tobacco, Holmes shrugged. "I've found no better curative for extreme intoxication than formaldehyde."

Sure enough, Watson jumped up and ran to the washroom to empty his stomach. Holmes chuckled as he lit his pipe and amused himself by blowing several smoke rings into the air. A trick he'd have to share with little Mary once she got a bit older.

A few hours later, once Watson had recovered from the debilitating effects of the formaldehyde, bathed, shaved, and changed his clothes, Holmes found him in his leaning over his daughter's cradle. He sat down across from him, for once in his life having the tact to remain silent. Watson was the first to speak. "I'm sorry. I can't believe I let this happen. My own daughter," he whispered, his voice nearly breaking as he reached down to gently stroke his finger against her soft cheek. "She's grown so much already, and I missed it. The poor thing doesn't even have a name yet..."

"Actually," Holmes said casually, "I've been meaning to discuss that with you." Watson tore his gaze away from his sleeping daughter to look at his friend with one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Well, since you were in no condition to do so, and I had no idea when you would regain your senses, I have found a name that suits her quite nicely. Don't worry, I made no decision without consulting her first."

Holmes expected the doctor to be angry, or to roll his eyes in frustration, or, well... something other than the accepting nod he received. Watson simply looked back down at the baby and asked in a very calm manner, "What is her name, then?"

Reaching his hand in and letting her tiny fist close around on of his fingers, Holmes smiled and said, "Mary Irene Watson."

Watson nodded again and shut his eyes against the burning tears that threatened to fall. A life without Mary was no life at all, but here lay his own little Mary. His angel. His saving grace. "It's perfect," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank you, Holmes."

They fell into a comfortable silence, both watching Mary sleep peacefully, surrounded by more love than she had ever been in her short life, save the actual hour of her birth. "I am terribly sorry about Mary, Watson," Holmes said suddenly. "She was a remarkable, extraordinary woman."

"Thank you," Watson sighed wearily. "And Holmes... I'm sorry about Irene. Truly."

Holmes nodded, unable to speak for the second time that night. It was an odd feeling, having one's tongue tied, and he did not like it at all. Apparently sensing this, Watson cleared his throat lightly and said, "You know that name you've given my daughter... it's lacking something." Holmes looked over at his friend in confusion. Watson explained. "Mary was convinced it was a boy, you know. She was so convinced, in fact, that we only ever discussed names for a son. And do you know what she had her mind set on? The name she insisted upon for our son?"

"I should say I haven't the slightest idea," Holmes conceded.

"Sherlock," Watson said with a smile.

"Yes?"

"No," Watson chuckled. "She wanted to name our son Sherlock Edward Watson." Holmes was astonished and immediately searched Watson's face to see if his friend was in fact serious. Nothing indicated that he was telling a falsehood. "So, if you would not mind, I should like to honor Mary's wishes by adding to my daughter's name. Mary Irene Sherlock Watson."

Holmes smiled. "A fine idea, my dear Dr. Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

**_My friend just reminded me that today is Wednesday, aka update- day! Nothing is better than having people tell you how much they love your work! On that note, I'll shut up and leave you with Chapter 6 :)_**

Chapter 6

_"Fathers be good to your daughters. You are the god and the weight of her world." ~John Mayer_

"Yes!"

"No!"

"I insist."

"I can't..."

"But you must."

"Holmes!" Watson cried in frustration.

"Watson!" Holmes mimicked perfectly, much to his own amusement and Watson's annoyance.

The doctor sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not that I don't want her with me, Holmes. In fact there is nothing I would like more. But I just... I'm not ready for that yet."

"My dear Watson, you have been back to your usual respectable gentlemanly self for twelve days now," Holmes rationalized. "I see no reason why your daughter should not be moved back into your own room."

Watson smirked, just a little. "Have you grown tired of her already?"

"On the contrary," Holmes sniffed. "Mary is a most excellent companion. However, that does not change the fact that she is your daughter, and as such should be residing in your room."

"I know," Watson nodded wearily as he sank down into his favorite chair as Holmes vanished momentarily into the closet. God only knows why. Watson chose to ignore it. For the moment, at least.

"But you're afraid you'll make a mistake of monstrous proportions," Holmes guessed correctly from behind the closed closet door. "You worry you might cause her physical or even more emotional harm than she has already endured at such a tender age."

Watson sighed again and put his head in his hands. That was exactly what he was worried about. He didn't trust himself anymore. And how could he? He had practically run his business into the ground. He had gambled away nearly all his money. He had put so much alcohol and various drugs into his system it was a wonder he did not kill himself. Although, at the time, that had been what he wanted. Day after day in that chair (that damnable chair which had been promptly thrown out after his recovery) he had wished for nothing more than to join Mary in the afterlife. Luckily, Holmes had intervened at just the right time. And though it still brought tears to Watson's eyes to think that his baby girl had seen him at his very lowest, he was glad Holmes' had brought her with him to the prison. She was his daughter, his little Mary, his angel. And he was trying to be the father she deserved, but...

"Dear boy," Holmes said suddenly, out of the closet now and placing a comforting hand on Watson's shoulder, "I have been Mary's primary care giver for approximately 54 days. If I can manage without causing her irreversible damage for that long, I have no doubt that you can manage one night with the girl."

It was alright for Holmes not to have any doubts about Watson's parenting abilities. Enough doubts plagued Watson's mind for the both of them.

It took Watson the better part of two hours to get Mary to go to sleep. She was perfectly content in his arms as he walked the floor with her. It was only when he tried to put her in her cradle or if he should try and sit down that she began to fuss. Then, petrified she would begin crying, he'd jump up and begin the routine all over again. He thought of asking Holmes how he had managed to quiet her at night, but he was afraid his friend would tell him of some elaborate new idea he had tested on Mary, and Watson honestly did not want to know. Eventually, Watson was able to coax Mary into a deep enough sleep that he could set her down in her cradle without disturbing her. Watson then very nearly collapsed into his own bed, the old wound on his leg aching from the days events. He closed his eyes and waited for a peaceful sleep to claim him.

But Watson found it was not so easy to sleep with his daughter in the room. It was not that she was fussy, quite the opposite in fact. Mary slept contentedly while her father lay wide awake. Every sound jerked him out of bed. Each creak, tap, or rustle had to be throughly investigated, for in his weary mind and over active imagination, each posed a very real and dangerous threat to his little girl. He lay in bed, heart pounding erratically as he felt himself slipping into the training he'd received as a soldier. His eyes, well adjusted to the darkness, darted around the room restlessly, making mental note of his surroundings. His ears picked up every sound in the house. His muscles tensed, ready to spring into action should the worst occur. What the worst was, he wasn't sure. But he was ready for it, nonetheless. For seemingly endless hours, Watson lay wide awake. He was almost glad when he heard Mary stir and fuss from within her cradle. As soon as her cries reached his ears, Watson leapt out of bed and was leaning over her cradle in one swift move that would have been impressive had anyone been there to see it. He took her up in his strong arms, wrapping her in the white blanket Mary had made, the sight of so many tears running down his daughter's cheeks hurting him more than any wound ever had. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart," he whispered, kissing her head and wishing he could fight off whatever had her so upset. He held her against his chest and murmured, "Please stop crying, my love. I'm here. Everything's alright." His voice and his comforting touch soon soothed her, but she was in no hurry to leave the comfort of her father's arms. And honestly, Watson was reluctant to put her down again. The feeling of her small body snuggled against him and her heart beating in time with his own filled him with joy.

Laying her in his own bed, she began to whimper, as if she was afraid he would disappear again. Watson quickly lay down beside her and she quieted when she realized he was not indeed leaving her. Watson smiled sadly and ran his finger along her soft cheek. "I promise, I'll never leave you again," he whispered, placing his hand on her head and gently stroking the blonde curls that already resembled her mother's. Blinking back the moisture burning his eyes, he said softly, "I love you, Mary."

"Sleep my baby, on my bosom, warm and cozy will it prove. Round thee Father's arms are folding, in my heart a father's everlasting love abides," Watson began humming a familiar lullaby, the one Mary had intended to sing their child, but would never get the chance to. Changing the word mother to father, Watson continued to sing, very badly in his opinion, but it soothed Mary incredibly, so he continued, "There shall no one come to harm thee, naught shall ever break thy rest. Sleep my darling babe in quiet, sleep on Father's gentle chest."

Soon both father and daughter were finally asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Yeah! It's Wednesday! Time for another update! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favorited this story. It really means a lot to me and inspires me to keep writing!_**

Chapter 7

_"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it." ~Rabindranath Tagore_

Darkness. Suffocating, blinding darkness. It weighed heavily upon him. He couldn't move. He could scarcely even breathe. Where was he? Holmes tried to make sense of things, anything at all. But darkness was all there was. He was trapped, and he could not find a way out. He shouted, but no sound passed his lips. He tried to kick and fight the darkness off, but his limbs were heavy and would not obey him. Was he dying? Possibly. Possibly not. He didn't know. His mind was foggy and he didn't like it one bit. Dying might even be preferable to this suffocating darkness.

Then, a light. Slightly blurred and dim, but a light nonetheless. And someone was calling his name. A familiar voice, though he could not place it. Whomever it was sounded incredibly far away. Somewhere on the outskirts of consciousness, Holmes knew he could trust the voice. It would help him. Together they could vanquish the enemy hiding in the oppressive shadows surrounding him. But the more Holmes struggled, grasping, groping for something, anything to cling to, to reach the light and the voice, the more he got the distinct feeling that he was falling. And falling quickly.

Holmes felt his muscles tense and his body jerk as he awoke with a gasping breath.

"It's alright," the voice said, and Holmes' frantic gaze settled on Watson's face hovering above him, his friend's strong and steadying hands placed firmly on his shoulders. "It was just a dream, Holmes."

"No," Holmes said with a slight shake of his head, sitting up right and still trying to calm his breathing, "no, Watson. A dream is a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions passing through one's subconscious during a period of rest. I would commit murder for a simple, pleasant dream! But that... that was no dream..."

Watson was confused. "Then what was it?"

"Darkness," Holmes whispered fiercely, trembling hands running over his face and back through his hair, as though trying to rid himself completely of the nightmare. "Insufferable darkness."

Watson frowned. He had seldom ever seen Holmes look so incredibly broken in all their years of friendship. It was more than a bit unnerving. "Darkness?"

"For months, darkness was my only companion," Holmes shuddered. "It haunts me still."

He truly was terrified, which explained why nearly all the lamps had been left on in the room. And why he had heard him screaming from across the apartment. A question that had been ignored by both of them for far too long was now brought forth by Watson. "What happened at Reichenbach Falls, Holmes?"

"That is a tale best saved for another time, dear Watson," Holmes sighed, rolling his sore shoulders. The action allowed Watson his first glimpse of the old wound on the detective's right shoulder. The one that had nearly killed him and would have if not for a certain wedding gift. Pushing the terrible memory out of his mind, Watson knelt before Holmes to examine the wound with a carefully trained eye. Holmes visibly stiffened and grew uncomfortable under Watson's apparent concern. As selfish and conceited as he could often be, Holmes had always hated being cared for. He was a grown man for God sake! He could look after himself. Just when he was about to tell Watson so, his friend anticipated his protests and gave him a pointed look.

"I don't want to hear it, Holmes. I am your friend and your doctor," he said, glaring him into indignant submission. Watson examined the now jagged scar that looked a bit irritated. He could tell it had only been completely healed relatively recently. "I should have been there."

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes muttered. "What could you have possibly done?"

"I could have helped you, Holmes!" Watson cried, becoming increasingly frustrated once again that Holmes had waited so long to contact him after his apparent death. It was obvious now that Watson's fears for Holmes' well being had been justified after all. "That obviously hasn't been healed for very long! I can only assume it has been infected?"

"Twice."

Watson sighed heavily. "_What happened_ at the falls, Holmes?"

"As I have previously stated, Watson," Holmes said softly, but decidedly, "that is a question for another day."

Watson sighed again, admitting defeat for the moment, and sat down on the edge of Holmes' bed next to his friend. Neither looked at each other as they sat in mutual silence, until Watson said, "Then answer me this, why in God's name were you in the closet?"

"It was not the first time, though I suppose it was the first time you have been enough of yourself to notice," Holmes smirked, both men still staring intently at the wall before them. "As I said, for months the darkness was my only companion, and it haunts me still. It's preposterous, isn't it? That I, Sherlock Holmes, should be afraid of the dark. Utter nonsense."

"No. The body reacts to trauma in ways we often don't understand, Holmes," Watson tried to explain. "But that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, well, by forcing myself to confront my fears for increasing lengths of time, it should not be long before I am right as rain. After all, how am I ever going to guide Mary in the ways of moral virtue toward the light of truth in a world so full of deceit and treachery when I cannot even fight back the darkness of my own mind?"

"How indeed?" Watson chuckled. Then he grew more serious and finally turned to look at his friend, relieved to find Holmes already looking much more like himself. "Will you be alright?"

"But of course, my dear Watson," Holmes replied with a devilish grin. "Aren't I always?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies." ~J. M. Barrie_

"I can't believe I'm leaving her."

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes scoffed. "You will only be gone for a couple of hours. I doubt she will even notice your absence."

Watson held Mary in one arm and his medical bag in the other. He had been called to Elm Street by Mrs. Collins who's son had been bed ridden with a high fever for three days. As much as he did not want to leave his daughter's side, he needed to start working again. After practically neglecting his profession entirely shortly following his wife's death, it was amazing that he had any patients left at all. He desperately needed to rebuild his credibility. "You're right," he sighed.

"You sound surprised."

With an eye roll for his best friend, Watson kissed Mary's head. "Be a good girl for Uncle Holmes," he smiled at her as she stared up at him with big blue eyes. Then he looked at the detective. "Be a good boy for Mrs. Hudson."

"How dare you even suggest such a thing," Holmes said with a disgusted look on his face. "Honestly, Watson, sometimes it's as though you don't know me at all. Now hand me my angelic niece and be on your way. Can't have you being late now can we?"

"Unfortunately, no," the young father and doctor sighed, kissing his daughter once more before handing her over to Holmes. "Now, what did we discuss?"

"No experiments, no adventures traipsing through Europe, no open flames, no black powder, no chemicals," Holmes rambled with an exasperated look on his face. "Have I forgotten anything, Mother Hen?"

"I want to return to my daughter in the same state that I left her in. I'm trusting you, Holmes."

"You seem to forget who cared for her during the first few months of her life, which, I might add, of are vital importance to a child's development."

"I have not forgotten. Not that you'll let me," Watson smiled. "I am grateful, Holmes."

"Of course you are," Holmes nodded, pushing him out the door. "Now go before that lad finds himself well without any help from you whatsoever." Once he had closed the door behind Watson, he turned to his niece. "Now my dear, what shall we do today, hmm?"

He lay her down on her back on his tiger rug. "Stay there, I will be right back." He went to his desk and pulled out a rattle Mycroft had sent to Mary made of the finest Czech crystal. A bit extravagant for a child, but that sort of thing was so typical of his older brother. Holmes smiled as he held up the object. A perfectly safe toy for Mary to amuse herself with. Hiding it behind his back, he turned to face his niece but was met with a surprise of his own. Mary was no longer on her back but had rolled over onto her stomach all on her own. "How did... did you just..."

Mary squealed in delight and kicked her legs frantically. Holmes laughed as he lay down on the floor beside her. "It's nice to see some of my genius has rubbed off on you, my dear."

"Ahhhh," Mary babbled.

"Yes, you father is a very smart man. I suppose he may have had something to do with that," he admitted, rolling her back onto her back and presenting her with the trinket. Mary's eyes grew wide as she reached eagerly for the sapphire blue rattle. The pair was amused with this for no more than 13 minutes. "Well," he sighed, propping himself up on his elbow and resting his chin on his hand, "what would you like to do now, Miss Watson?" Mary reached toward him and made a few indistinguishable noises. Holmes picked her up in his arms. She bounced a bit on her own accord, seeming to be urging her uncle to do the same. "Dance with you?" Holmes grinned. "Why, Miss Watson, I thought you would never ask." Placing a record on the turn table, he began to spin and sway with the music while holding her in his arms, until he heard something that made him stop in his tracks. A giggle. He looked down at Mary who's adorable face was lit up with a beautiful smile. Her first smile and her first laugh had been bestowed upon her dear uncle. "You know, the first time a baby laughs, it is said that the laugh breaks into a thousand pieces that scatter about and become fairies," Holmes explained with a smile. She giggled again. "I'm afraid I'm being entirely serious, my dear. Do you find me amusing?" he smirked.

"Mr. Holmes, you never cease to entertain," Mrs. Hudson said, brining up tea and biscuits as well as the morning's paper.

Holmes raised an eyebrow, leaning down to whisper in his niece's ear. "Beware Mary, though she may look like a kind and gentle land lady, I have reason to believe she is secretly a spy."

"Who needs to spy?" Mrs. Hudson said dryly. "The way you go bashing about London, everyone knows your business, whether they wish to or not. Now, hand me that baby. It's time for her bottle."

Holmes relinquished his companion to Mrs. Hudson who took the child downstairs, giving him a moment to take his tea and read through the paper. But he went to the door and watched Mrs. Hudson make her way down the stairs, Mary's head resting on the woman's shoulder. Sticking his thumbs in his ears and sticking out his tongue, he made a face at her. Mary squealed and laughed in delight before Mrs. Hudson turned a corner and the two disappeared from his sight. Holmes sighed. "You will have many fairies watching out for you, Mary. And even if they all fly away one day when you grow too old for such things, I will still be there. That is my promise to you."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Hello everyone! This update is a tad early because I will be without internet tomorrow, also I know my chapters have been pretty short, but this one is longer :) Hope you enjoy it! Another note, I'm getting my novel ready for a contest, so I probably won't be able to update regularly. Wish me luck! Keep those reviews coming! They inspire me to keep writing :)**_

Chapter 8

_"But fate ordains that even the dearest of friends must part." ~Edward Young_

Watson emerged from putting Mary down for a nap, only to find Holmes had vanished. "Holmes?"

"In here," his friend's voice came from behind the closet door. With a sigh, Watson crossed the room and was about to open the door when he heard, "Don't."

"Why not?"

"I have nearly cured myself of my affliction. Five minutes more and I shall emerge a changed man," Holmes said.

Watson rolled his eyes. "One can only hope," he muttered as he went to sit down in a chair and wait, amusing himself with a new medical journal Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to purchase for him.

Five minutes later exactly, the door opened and out came Holmes. He brushed off his pants and straightened his shirt, as though he actually cared about his appearance and sat down in the chair next to Watson's. "So," Watson said without even looking up from his book, "are you going to tell me now?"

Holmes sniffed and took a sip of tea that was now cold. "I haven't the slightest clue what you are referring to, Watson."

"You know exactly what I'm referring to," Watson demanded, slamming the book shut. "What happened at the falls, Holmes?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes! For the love of God, Holmes," Watson cried. "For my own peace of mind, I need to know!"

"Alright, alright," Holmes sighed. "Where would you like me to start this tale?"

"At the beginning would be nice."

"Well it all started with a package that Irene was told to deliver..."

"Holmes."

"Very well, then. I suppose perhaps the first thing I should tell you, is that I did not intend to survive the fall."

"What?" Watson cried, completely shocked. Holmes always had a plan. There was never anything that he did not account for. "You intended to die? It was just by some stroke of luck that you managed to survive?"

"I thought you wanted to hear this story, Watson, or is it your intention to rudely interrupt me the entire way through?" Watson obediently shut his mouth. "Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I had not counted on living long once Moriarty and I began our brawl. I knew that one of us was going to die that night, and I had intended on it being him. But he took advantage of my injured shoulder and got the upper hand. I considered just letting him kill me. It would be so easy; a sweet release from the terrors of this world... but then you came out onto the balcony." Watson tensed at the memory of the look of agony and sadness that had been on Holmes' face invaded his mind. "When you looked at me, I knew I could not let Moriarty survive. I could not leave him alive to terrorize the world... to then come after you with the intent to kill... no. I could not allow it. I made the decision to jump in that split second it took for us to lock eyes, Watson. I saw the confusion on your face and the horror as I fell to the death that most assuredly awaited me. After the initial shock though, I found myself able to enjoy the fall... quite exhilarating, really..."

"Holmes," Watson said sharply to keep his friend focused.

"Right. Yes, well just before I plunged into the freezing water, I fortunately remembered the breathing device I had, uh... borrowed from Mycroft. It was because of this that I did not drown due to the shock caused when exposed to such freezing temperatures. Though I assume a skilled doctor such as yourself is aware of such a phenomenon."

Watson nodded solemnly. "The body begins to gasp for air, typically leading to hyperventilation, and most cases result in the victim... drowning."

"Most cases, perhaps," Holmes smirked, obviously taking pride in the fact that 'most cases' never applied to him.

"The rocks, Holmes," Watson prodded, his heart constricting as he remembered searching the base of the mighty waterfall for his friend's mangled body. "How did you avoid hitting the rocks?"

"Ah, that was quite simple, dear Watson. I simply used the momentum of the fall and my own body weight to propel myself away from those nasty little things, yet remain close enough to the base of the falls to land in water that had been quite nicely aerated, and thus avoid the unpleasantness of plunging into the still waters."

Watson raised his brow and leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk hidden beneath his mustache. "For a man who did not intend to survive, you certainly seemed to have thought things through."

"I told you I had Mycroft's oxygen device. Once I discovered that, well it seemed rather foolish to simply accept death when there was a way to escape it. Heavens, Watson! Have you not been listening at all?"

Rolling his eyes, the good doctor shook his head. "My apologies. Continue."

Holmes eyed him for a moment, making absolutely certain his heroic tale would not be interrupted again. When he was satisfied with Watson's silence and convinced he had his friend's unyielding attention, he continued. "Well, Moriarty was no where to be found when I resurfaced. I assume he was not as fortunate as I and landed on the rocks that were a few feet from me, and then the frigid water was enough to finish him off. As it happens though, I discovered there is a cave behind the waterfall with a canal that leads to a river somewhere outside the city. Using Mycroft's breathing device, I was able to swim along with the current through the canal, and I eventually made my way to the river. You can imagine, I'm sure, how throughly exhausted I was by the time I dragged my wretched body onto the shore. Shivering and short of breath, I made my way toward some lights in the distance where I heard people conversing and some sort of a jig playing. I approached their campfire and though my vision was fading, I was still able to detect Simza's familiar face."

"Simza?" Watson echoed in disbelief. With all that had happened recently, he'd all but forgotten about their traveller friend.

Holmes nodded. "I had quite literally stumbled upon her gypsy encampment. She had just returned from the peace summit, for even in my state I noticed she was still wearing her burgundy dress, though her hair was down, and the makeup had been wiped from her face, and she..."

"Holmes," Watson sighed wearily, for though he wanted to know how Holmes had survived, relieving the weeks of hell he'd been through while believing his dearest friend dead was draining.

"Of course, yes. Well, hardly able to stay upright on my own a minute more, Simza helped me to her wagon where she promptly put me to bed. I developed a raging fever..."

"I knew it," John groaned, heaving a sigh as he stood from his chair and walked over to the window, then back to the chair, and back to the window again. Holmes watched him with curiosity, wondering what he could possibly be doing. Honestly, John didn't even know, but he was too frustrated with himself to stay still. "I should have been there," he whispered fiercely.

"I've already told you, Watson, there was nothing you could have done," Holmes tried to explain, but his reasoning fell on deaf ears.

"Damn it, Holmes, I'm a doctor!" Watson nearly shouted, a sob forming in his throat. "You were ill... you were dying! Of what use am I if I can't even..." he sighed heavily, and when he spoke again, his voice was much softer. "I lost Mary due to my incompetence. The fact that I could have lost you as well..."

They were silent for a moment, both reflecting on the horrors that might have been, that is, until Holmes smirked and said, "My dear Watson, you think you could rid yourself of me that easily?"

A short, harsh laugh passed John Watson's lips. "No. No, I suppose not. So," he sighed, wearily sinking back down into his chair, "what happened then?"

"When a few days had passed and I'd not improved, she sent for Mycroft. I then endured the rest of my illness at his residence, and was able to recover under his and Simza's care despite your absence. Surprising, I know," he teased.

"But Holmes," Watson said, brow knitting together as he tried to fit the pieces together in his mind, "the letter. You delivered it, I know. And the note at the bottom of my manuscript... how did you manage it if you were so ill?"

"When has something such as a simple illness ever stopped me, old boy?" Holmes said with a shrug, casually lighting his pipe. "I had to somehow let you know I was indeed alive, but I could not trust a simple postman to deliver the message. So, as soon as I was able to at least stand on my own, I made my way to London when Mycroft had left on business and Simza had gone to the market. Granted, they were not pleased when I returned the next day..."

"No, I imagine not."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and leisurely blew a stream of smoke through his lips. He looked at Watson and smiled. "I'm afraid that is the conclusion of my heroic tale, dearest Watson. However, there are still many cases to be solved and adventures to be had, so I never want to see the words _The End_ typed at the bottom of your manuscript ever again."

"Never."

"I will tell you myself when it is indeed, _The End_," Holmes sniffed with a dignified air.

Watson chuckled. "It will never truly be _The End_ of the great Sherlock Holmes."


	10. Chapter 10

_**Hello again dear Sherlock fans! I am so sorry this chapter was such a long time in coming, but it just refused to be written. However, it ended up being pretty long, so hopefully that makes up for my prolonged absence? Yes? Maybe? Anyway, please enjoy this chapter, and review if you are so inclined!**_

Chapter 10

_"If you love someone, let them go. If they return to you, it was meant to be. _

_If they don't, their love was never yours to begin with."_

Holmes looked up from his experiment when Mrs. Hudson set a bottle of wine down on a stack of miscellaneous papers. He smirked. "I'm flattered Nanny, but I'm afraid I don't have anything to give to you in return."

"It's not from me, you goose. Someone delivered it this afternoon."

She left the room carrying his dinner tray, half the food still left on the plate, muttering something about how he was going to kill himself one of these days with the way he carried on. Holmes examined the bottle. Margaux '58. Just holding such a familiar vintage made his head spin with unwanted memories. It had been her favorite... well, never mind that. There was a note attached. Setting the bottle back down on the table he opened it.

_I don't want to run anymore. The Grand Hotel. 7pm. _

_~A_

His hands began to tremble. No. Surely not. But... could it be true? He dared not hope. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as his mind raced with possibilities. Watson entered the room after putting Mary down for the night, and frowned when he saw his friend staring blankly at the piece of paper he held in his hand, his face alarmingly pale. "Holmes? Is something wrong? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Not yet," Holmes whispered. Then he turned his frantic gaze to Watson. "What time is it?"

Watson checked his pocket watch. "Quarter to seven. Why?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain, Watson. I haven't a moment to lose!"

He hailed a cab. Any other day, he would have walked, but this was no ordinary circumstance. Time was of the essence! As the car bumped and jerked over the cobblestones, Holmes closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind and think rationally. Not bloody likely. Not with thoughts of that woman muddling things up as she always did. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tighter, gripping the edge of the leather seat he was perched upon, and tried to look past his confounded emotions and think logically. What did he know? The facts, Sherlock! What are the facts?

One, he had no proof Irene had, in fact, died. All this time he'd been merely assuming she was dead because of that damned bloodied handkerchief of hers and the word of his worst enemy. Moriarty had wanted to get inside his head, wanted him to play the game. And it had worked, all because Holmes knew his nemesis was just vile enough to kill Irene to get to him. But had he indeed killed her?

Two, the note he'd received was attached to a bottle of her favorite wine. It had been sprayed with her favorite Parisian perfume. But all that paled in comparison to the fact that the slender hand that had penned the message was hers. There was no doubt about that.

Three, no obituary had ever been posted. A detail he'd overlooked until this very moment. Granted, she was a thief and a con-artist, with no family to speak of, but surely someone other than himself would have noticed her disappearance. A dead body simply does not disappear, he knew this first-hand. Someone would have found the body. A doctor perhaps would have examined her and confirmed her death. A mortician prepared her for burial. At the very least, someone surely would have recognized her as the great temptress supreme and thief extraordinaire that she was. After all, she'd stolen some very important items from some very important people.

Then again, Moriarty could have had her body disposed of before she'd even grown cold. The bastard.

The cab lurched to a stop and Holmes nearly tumbled off the seat. Cursing himself for not paying better attention, he hastily handed the driver what he assumed was a fairly large sum, though he was in far too much of a hurry to be bothered with such a trifling matter. He didn't pause at the reception desk, he knew exactly which room she would be in. Standing before the ornately carved door, he was suddenly unsure. Dare he knock? What awaited on the other side but a ghost from his past? She'd broken his heart before, a fact he would never admit to, and she'd likely do it again. It would be so easy to turn around and go back to Baker Street. Back to little Mary, and Watson, and Nanny, and Gladstone. Back to a life without Irene... damn that woman! Turning around now would be an impossible task. In the past year he'd realized just how much he loved her. But he thought he'd realized it too late. All those wasted years spent chasing after one another, an endless game of cat and mouse. Well, no more. He would not let her escape again. She drove him absolutely mad, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He loved her more than anything. And this time, he would not miss the chance to tell her so.

A quick rap on the door and he tried the knob, somewhat surprised to find it open. Entering the room, he saw her sitting before the fire, a silk rob pulled round her slender figure. She smiled up at him. "I knew you'd come."

He stood for a moment, just looking at her. My God, she was beautiful. Holmes almost could not believe that he was in the same room with her again; that she was this close. It had to be a dream. Surely he was dreaming. It would not be the first time since her supposed death that he dreamed of her. But then she reached her arms out to him, and he crossed the room, taking her slender hands in his, kissing each one, and falling to his knees before her. Resting his head in her lap, he breathed in her sweet scent and sighed, "Dear one, I was so afraid I'd lost you."

She ran her fingers through his dark locks, letting them trail along his whiskered jaw line, gently tilting his face upward so she could place a kiss on his forehead. "Never," she whispered fervently. "Never. Never."

Rising to his feet, he pulled her up with him. Caressing her cheek, he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was unlike any they'd shared before. It was soft and slow. Sherlock wanted to savor the moment he feared would never come again. Her lips were soft, and tasted divine, far superior to even the finest of wines. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, he pulled her close against his chest. The whimper that escaped her throat as she nipped his lower lip melted his heart of stone. Their kiss deepened, and their mouths moved in an elaborate dance of passion. Sweeping her off her feet, Holmes carried her over to the large bed, sitting down and leaning against the plush cushions, all the while holding her close and continuing to pepper her face with kisses.

Hours later, Sherlock watched Irene sleep, her face bathed in the glow of the flickering fire and the few lighted lamps. She took his breath away. Right then in that moment, he vowed to never let her go again. As he looked at her though, he could not help but notice that she looked... different. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were sunken in, and her complexion a tad sallow. And she was thinner. Much thinner than she had been. Irene's eyes fluttered open, looking up at Sherlock with another heartbreaking smile. But he didn't smile back. "What's troubling you?" she asked him, reaching up and stroking his cheek.

Holmes sighed, taking her hand and kissing it. "For so long I thought you were dead. I never thought I'd see you again, my dear." Irene gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. "All this time... What happened?"

Pursing her lips, Irene sat up and walked over to the table. "Are you hungry?" she said, busying her self with trays of treats. "We could eat here or go out..."

"Irene..."

"Then of course, we could simply wait and have breakfast delivered. Personally, I'm not all that hungry..." She trailed off when Holmes came up behind her, taking her hands and pinning her arms to her sides. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

"What did he do to you, darling?" he whispered, his breath dancing across her skin and sending a chill down her back.

"Poisoned my tea."

Holmes could hardly breathe as memories overtook him. Waiting for her at the restaurant, obsessively checking his pocket watch, fear rising in his chest with each passing minute. Moriarty, shattering his world by dropping Irene's bloody handkerchief onto that damned chess board. Wordlessly admitting to Watson she was gone and letting the handkerchief fall into the ocean. But now she was here, and God willing, she'd never leave his side again.

"It was a rare form of tuberculosis. The doctor said I may never be completely myself again," she continued, moving to the window and wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "I was sent to a sanatorium. I don't remember much. I was there for months, or so I was told. Days blurred into weeks..." she finally turned to look back at him then. "I never stopped thinking of you though, Sherlock. I waited for you to come and rescue me, like you always do. But I knew you were after Moriarty. And then when I heard you had died... I didn't know what to do. I tried to start a new life when I left the sanatorium. I went to Paris, but... I couldn't. So when I heard you were alive, I couldn't stay away."

"I am sorry I was not there," he said sincerely, his heart aching when he thought of all she'd been through.

Irene shook her head. "I'm not. You are the great Sherlock Holmes. You saved countless lives by taking down Moriarty. And you're here now." She crossed the room, taking his head in her hands and kissing him fiercely. "Come away with me."

Her breath was sweet on his lips. Oh tempting her offer was. But, he found himself saying, "I can't."

Irene jerked away from him, disappointment and betrayal dancing in her eyes. "You've found another," she accused.

"I have."

"Do you love her?"

Holmes nodded solemnly. "Very much. More than I ever thought possible."

Blinking rapidly, she struggled to keep her tears at bay. "Well, I'm sure you two will be very happy, and..."

"Irene..."

"... I wish you nothing but the best, Sherlock..."

"Irene!"

"What?" she nearly shouted.

"Her name."

"What?" she asked, quite astonished. "Why should I care what her name..."

"It's Mary," he said, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. "Her name is Mary Irene Sherlock Watson." The look in the woman's dark grey eyes flicked from hurt to confused. "She is Watson's daughter. She's just over a year old, and the most adorable child you've ever met."

"Watson's daughter?"

Holmes nodded again. "The Mrs. Watson died in childbirth, Irene. I've been helping Watson care for the child ever since. I named her after her mother, and after you. Oh, she's wonderful. She's the most precious thing in my life, except for you. And that, my darling, is why I cannot run away with you."

Irene smiled up at him. "Imagine, Sherlock Holmes caring for a baby."

"Never thought you'd see the day, did you?"

She shook her head, and Holmes placed a kiss on her forehead. "I love you, Irene Adler, and only you."

"And I love you."

"It's settled then," Holmes declared, leading her over to the chair by the fire and pulling her down onto his lap. "No more cat and mouse. No more games. I'll never let you go again. I'm afraid this is it, my love."

"I do hope so, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. Having faced the prospect of life without him, she never wanted to be parted from him ever again. "No more running. No more secrets. This is it."

He kissed her then, and whispered into her mouth, "Come away with me, my love."

Smiling, she kissed him back. "Anywhere you wish."

And then, without consulting his brain, his lips spoke his heart's deepest desire. "Marry me."

Irene smiled coyly, leaning in to kiss him again. "Tomorrow."


	11. Chapter 11

**_Hello! No, the adventures of Holmes & Watson are most surely not at an end. There may be long periods between updates (sooo sorry, btw) BUT it will be finished. Eventually. For now, I would like to invite you to the wedding of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. Enjoy & review! I'd love to hear from you!_**

Chapter 11

_"For it was not into my ear that you whispered, but into my heart._

_It was not my lips that you kissed, but my soul." ~Judy Garland_

"Married? To that... that woman?" Watson whispered fiercely. He more than likely would have been shouting if Irene were not in the next room playing with Mary.

"Yes."

"Have you completely taken leave of your senses?"

"On the contrary, Watson," Holmes said in a perfectly calm manner, "I've never made a more sensible decision in my life."

Watson laughed humorlessly. "Now that I do not doubt, but it's not saying much."

"Watson, the woman I love, the only woman I could ever love has come back to me. I will not lose her again."

The doctor sighed heavily. "I suppose I can't blame you for that," he said, knowing he would do just about anything to have Mary with him again. "When is the wedding then?"

Having poured two glasses of whiskey, Holmes handed one to Watson. "Two hours. That should be enough time for Irene to find a suitable dress, and..."

"Two hours?" Watson cried, choking on his drink. "You're getting married today?"

Holmes frowned. "But of course my dear Watson. Don't be absurd."

Watson rolled his eyes. The man was getting married in two hours, yet he was the one who was being absurd. "Holmes, a marriage is not something you simply throw together in a matter of hours!"

"I see no reason why not."

"You must send out invitations, find a minister, and then there's the flowers, and the food, and the music..."

"Nonsense. You know I've never been a particularly religious man, Watson. A judge will suffice. And there are exactly nine different flower vendors from here to the courthouse at which to purchase a bouquet. Invitations are of little to no importance, as the only people I would care to invite happen to be in the flat at this very moment."

"What of your brother?"

"I wired him last night, he'll be here within the hour. And with so few of us, a grand dinner is not necessary and our old phonograph will provide adequate entertainment for the evening." With a smirk, he looked to his friend and asked, "Have I forgotten anything, Mother Hen?"

"The ring?" Watson asked, thinking he had him.

Holmes simply smiled. "Picked it up on the way here, old boy. Irene's judgement of such things is far superior to my own, so I left it up to her discretion. The little bauble rests comfortably in my breast pocket for the time being. Truly, the only thing left to do is procure a best man. Will you do me the honor?"

Watson shook his head and smiled. "Of course. Although, I'm afraid there is no real time to give you a proper stag party."

"I've never been much for tradition," Holmes shrugged. "And, judging by your own, I'm rather glad you'll not be hosting one in my honor. Honestly Watson, that was the absolute worst stag party I have ever been to."

"You were the one that planned it!"

Holmes smirked, taking a sip of his drink. "Don't be ridiculous, Watson."

And so, two hours later, the small wedding party found themselves at the courthouse, facing Judge Thomas as he preformed the ceremony. Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft, who'd shown up just in the nick of time, were all sporting their best suits. Mrs. Hudson wore a smart plum colored dress, and carried a white handkerchief that was frequently brought out to dab at stray tears. As vehemently as she denied it, Watson knew she cared for Holmes as a son, and now was crying a mother's joyful tears at his wedding. Little Mary was beautiful in the flouncy pink gown Uncle Mycroft had brought her from Paris, and she watched her Uncle Holmes with wide eyes, as if she knew the importance of this day. Their lives would never be the same. The same thought had entered her father's mind. Nothing would be the same. But perhaps, that might not be such a bad thing. Never before had he seen his friend so purely happy. And Irene, in the white lace gown she had insisted upon, was positively radiant as she gazed at Sherlock.

"Do you, Sherlock Holmes, take Irene Adler to be your lawful wedded wife, to live in the holy estate of matrimony..."

"I do," Holmes nodded, his voice confident and sure. And perhaps a tad too eager. Watson could not help but chuckle at Judge Thomas' surprised expression.

Luckily, the judge was relatively familiar with the antics of Sherlock Holmes, and was able to recover quite quickly. "Yes, well... good then." He turned next to Irene, and said, "Do you, Irene Adler, take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawful wedded husband, to live in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love, honor, comfort, and cherish him from this day forward, forsaking all others, keeping only unto him for as long as you both shall live?"

Patiently waiting for Judge Thomas to finish speaking, she gave Sherlock a wink and smiled. "I do."

As the couple vowed to love each other for the rest of their lives, Watson reflected fondly on his own wedding day. Mary had been so very beautiful in her white gown and flimsy veil. And he... well, he had not been in the best shape thanks to a certain best friend of his. But Mary had been gracious, as always, accepting and forgiving him. Loving him when he didn't deserve her. But, as he kissed little Mary on the cheek, he found the pain of losing her was no longer as sharp as it had once been. It was now a seemingly constant, dull ache, soothed only by the sweet girl he held in his arms now. A part of herself Mary had left behind for him, so she would never be forgotten or truly far from his heart. In spite of all that he had suffered, he regretted none of it. He had loved, and was loved in return. And he was glad his friend had finally found that same joy.

"With this ring, I thee wed," Holmes said, eyes shining as he slid the diamond ring onto Irene's finger. "Wear it as a symbol of our love and commitment."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Judge Thomas said, smiling at the couple. "You may now kiss..."

Once again the judge was cut off by an impatient groom. Holmes leaned in to kiss Irene, savoring the sweetness of her soft lips. They broke apart when their small party of attendants began to applaud. Mary even clapped her little hands together and began to laugh. It was quite the picturesque scene as the party left the courthouse. Two carriages were waiting to take them all back to Baker Street. As Holmes was helping Irene up, a man brushed past him rather roughly, enough to cause a brief flare of pain in his injured shoulder. Whipping his head about, he spotted the man who was looking back at him. A chill ran through Holmes. Those eyes. He'd seen them before, he was sure of it.

"Something wrong?" Irene asked from within the carriage, pulling him from his trance-like state and bringing his attention back to her.

"No. It's nothing, my love," he said, forcing a smile. He glanced back once more in the direction of the stranger, but he had vanished into the crowd. With a sigh, he hoisted himself up into the carriage. "Driver," he called with an ornery grin, taking Irene's hand in his, "take us home."

Up and down Baker Street, soft trills of music could be heard leading to Ms. Hudson's boarding house. The parlor had been cleared specifically for the dancing couples that twirled about the room, swaying to the music that played through the phonograph. Wine glasses had been abandoned in favor of the current song, surely a favorite among those present. Laughter and lively conversation competed with the notes that floated through the air. Despite all this, Holmes' gaze scarcely left his new bride. Irene noticed, and her cheeks bloomed a becoming shade of pink. A rare but welcome sight indeed. "How are you this evening, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Quite well, Mr. Holmes," she smiled demurely, looking up through her thick lashes at her husband. "How are you?"

Holmes placed a kiss on her nose. "I am in raptures, my darling. Although, I am wondering when I get to steal you away?"

As the song finished, Irene kissed his cheek, her breath warm as her answer brushed his ear. "Soon."

He watched as she sauntered across the room to ask his brother for a dance. He shook his head. Damn that woman! The sound of his niece momentarily tore his attention away from his bride. He turned to see Watson, and little Mary stretching her arms out eagerly for her Uncle Holmes. Only too happy to oblige, he took her from Watson who said, "Do you know what your brother has given my daughter?"

"I assume by your tone of slight annoyance you are not speaking of the fine Parisian gown the little princess is wearing."

"No, the dress is lovely. It's the nickname he has given her that I find so displeasing."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, looking to Mary as if she might have an answer. But she simply smiled at him, showing off her few baby teeth. Holmes sighed and turned back to Watson. "If I may be so bold as to ask..."

"Shirley," Watson groaned. "It doesn't even make logical sense!"

"Actually, old fellow, it makes perfect sense. After all, that is what he has called me for years."

"What does that..." Holmes watched as the realization dawned over Watson's face. The young father groaned. "Shirley is short for Sherlock. Well, I'm sorry, Darling," he sighed, stroking Mary's blonde curls. "I knew I'd regret giving you that name one day, I just had no idea it would be this soon."

"Pay no attention to him, Princess. You have a fine name," he assured her proudly, glancing at Watson in mock disgust. "And to think I was going to name my first born after you, you bas..."

"Be nice," Watson scolded. Mary had already began speaking a few words and he did not want her picking up her uncle's foul language. "Your first born, indeed," he continued with a laugh. "I couldn't hardly imagine you as a father. But then I never imagined you married either, or how was it you so elegantly phrased it, entering into eternal purgatory?"

"I said no such thing."

"In any case, you've proved me wrong on both counts. You are wonderful with Mary, and I've never seen you happier than I have today. Congratulations, old boy."

Holmes smiled. "Thank you, my dear Watson. But if you will now excuse me," he said, handing a very sleepy Mary back to her father, "I believe I owe my wife this dance."

One moment Irene was chatting with Mrs. Hudson, and the next she was being pulled into her husband's embrace as the pair began to waltz about the room. "Now this seems familiar," he teased, "though I can't quite seem to place it."

"Prague," she smiled coyly. "I was after the Prime Minister's crystal, and you were after a certain thief."

"Ah yes. And I caught her, did I not?"

"You did indeed, Mr. Holmes. Though I never thought I would give myself up so easily."

"Easily?" Holmes chuckled. "My dear, life with you has been anything but easy."

"I'm afraid that won't change, Darling."

Sherlock held her a bit closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Nor would I want it to, Mrs. Holmes."

A pair of blue eyes watched from the window, unseen by the blissful patrons of 221 Baker Street. "Enjoy your fairytale now, Mr. Holmes," muttered the stranger, "for you won't be getting a happily ever after."


End file.
